


Three Sheets

by fourfreedoms



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Kelly has a one-night stand at a party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I fully blame this on [memphis86](http://memphis86.livejournal.com) and [ignited](http://ignited.livejournal.com). I cannot be held responsible. Secondly, in my defense, I actually started this before I asked you all to participate in that meme. I swear Cam Gigandet is ruining my life (he's of the Twilight and Never Back Down fame btw). Don't lets start on Brock Kelly.

They’re at the same party. Everybody is smoking. The air is like nicotine-flavored soup. Brock laughs at something superficial somebody says and when he looks up he feels his gaze like an itch. Cam blows out a swirl of cigarette smoke, leaning against the wall like a casual study of bad boy elegance. He holds Brock’s stare for a beat and then disappears into the crowd.

Brock turns back to the conversation, trying to push it from his mind, even as he feels warmth seep down over his spine and pool in the pit of his belly. He’s offered more alcohol, more gossip, more fake compliments. He’s getting a little wobbly on his legs. He needs air. More people are smoking outside on the patio when he manages to get out there, so he stumbles back through the bodies, down darkened hallways until he finds a room empty of people and noise. He can’t find the light switch, so he leaves it off.

He leans his head against the cold glass of the window, breath fogging it up until he can’t see out. He turns back to the room. It’s as cold and bland as any guest room. It suits his mood. He can still feel the bass beat through the wall. The plaster and wood vibrates disconcertingly.

The door opens.

Brock turns to stare at this newcomer, surprised when the light from the window reveals it to be Cam. He wants to ask, did you follow me? But he’s afraid of the answer, so he remains silent. Cam walks into his space. Their eyes are exactly level. He opens his mouth to ask what Cam is trying to do, but he’s stopped by the flutter of Cam’s lashes as his mouth slowly resolves into a smile.

He would not call Cam beautiful, but there is a magnetism to him. Brock feels as insignificant as iron filings. “You know you won’t always be stuck in the small time.”

“Oh?” Brock says, fighting to keep his face and voice passive. A conversation like this only makes sense because he’d just hammered back at least three vodka shots.

Cam’s smile widens and he raises a hand to cup Brock’s jaw, thumb skimming his lower lip. Before Brock can jerk away, Cam’s smiling mouth follows the track of his thumb, just barely brushing so that Brock’s mouth stings with sensation.

“What are you doing, man?” he whispers furiously. He goes to back up, but he’s drunk and no part of his body is listening to him. “Don’t—”

“Are you saying no?” Cam’s hand catches his wrist before he can widen the distance very far. The strength in that grip is evidence more than the mocking arch of his brows and the high swooping arch of his cheek bones of why he got a part in Never Back Down. He’s lucky, the world has already forgotten he was Marissa’s killer. There’s nothing of Brock for the world to even put behind them. He swallows. Cam’s thumb swoops over his pulse-point.

And when Cam dips forward for another kiss, he doesn’t resist. Cam’s mouth is cool, flavored with the asphalt taste of cigarettes. His fingers glide over the inner skin of Brock’s forearm, brushing just inside his elbow. The sound that comes out of his mouth is embarrassing. Cam sweeps over his lower lip and he drinks it up.

He is more and more aware of just how inebriated he is. How much he can’t seem to control himself. Cam walks him backwards, twirling him so that he lands on his back on the bed. He finds himself shoved up among the pillows, his t-shirt caught up under his arms while Cam grips his hip tight and follows some predetermined road down Brock’s chest with the tip of his tongue.

One wet lewd kiss is dropped to his left nipple and then Cam continues downward, outlining the definition of his abs. Brock moans, plucks his own shirt off. His legs are trapped under Cam’s body, but he knows his dick is pressing urgently into Cam’s sternum.

If he could parse a thought out, he’d be running the insanity of this over and over. Brock always leaves the possibility of going home with somebody open, but he wasn’t expecting a hookup in a guest bedroom like he’s a high schooler after senior prom.

Cam overwhelms him. His hands are gentle, butterfly light touches just edges away from ticklish, but his mouth is obscene, wet sucking kisses and teeth scraping over his muscles. Brock feels nails graze down his thighs and he realizes that Cam’s drawing his jeans and boxers off. Sneaky bastard. He wants to say as much, but he’s not sure they have that kind of relationship.

Cam’s fist closes around his dick and Brock has one moment of fear, before Cam starts jerking him off and thought is banished to some part of his brain he can’t access. He shudders and curses. Cam’s mouth is at his hip, tongue flicking over and over the sharp knob of his hip, just tantalizing inches away from his dick. He doesn’t think Cam will lower himself to sucking him off, but the thought…the thought nearly unmans him.

The calluses on Cam’s palm do strange things to his nerves when they brush up over the head of his dick. Cam's finger drifts over the slit, rubbing precome into the crown. It feels like all his brains’ electrical impulses have been given higher amperage. In the darkness, under Cam's touch, he feels more naked than he ever has. Cam’s lashes brush over the thin skin of his belly and he chokes, forcing his hips up against that grip. He’s getting close, something building in his belly until he's on the verge of spilling. He tightens the leg muscles Cam sprawls over, skin gliding against the fabric of Cam's shirt. Just a few more strokes.

Cam’s hand stills, something drops onto his stomach. He freezes and opens his eyes to glance down his body at the condom packet lying just under his bellybutton. He raises his eyes to Cam, who lies, still clothed, propped up on his elbows between Brock’s legs. Cam gazes steadily back, his expression implacably still.

He slowly raises an eyebrow at Brock’s hesitance. Brock squeezes his eyes shut tight and nods once, twice. He knows Cam is smiling.

“Just don’t…not dry, okay?” Brock says tightly, hands clenched in the cheap comforter.

Cam snorts and it turns into a laugh. “Jesus, you’re dumb,” he says. He kneels between Brock's spread thighs, pulling his shirt off and tossing it aside. Brock hears him unzip his jeans and dump them aside, accompanied by the heavy sound of his wallet thumping to the floor.

Brock can’t bring himself to open his eyes, so he twitches in surprise when something wet and cool rubs under his balls, down the cleft of his ass and over his entrance. He grunts when two fingers push inside, muscles thrown in sharp relief, clamping down tight. Cam doesn’t say anything, no reassuring words. He grips Brock’s thigh tight with one hand, fingers digging down into the muscle that refers to his knee until Brock is forced to relax. The fingers press in and out, knuckles bumping along inside, scissoring to stretch him.

Brock digs his teeth deep into his lip. Cam has resumed his gentle butterfly touch with his other hand, moving up and down the inside of Brock’s thigh. He hears the crackle of the foil packet being torn open and sucks air into his lungs. He's shaking with adrenaline and misgivings. His dick, perversely has never lost its hardness.

He feels weak and gelatinous from alcohol. When Cam pushes in with his dick it hurts, but it reminds him of all the times he fell down the stairs hammered and got up and laughed. It’s dull, removed from the senses. Crazy that he can still feel that whisper of fingertips on his skin.

They are drawn up eye-level again, the heat burning off of Cam’s skin blanketing him. He moves slow. Brock is thankful, he’s not sure he likes this, and the bed has started moving crazily under him like he’s lying on water. His heart is pounding, loud steady beats that he almost thinks Cam can hear.

Cam’s dick drags over his inner walls, strokes of his hips smooth. Brock wants to swallow his own tongue, this was not supposed to feel good. It’s not fair how restrained Cam is. Brock has to anchor himself with a hand wrapped around Cam’s bicep. He almost hopes it’s tight enough to hurt, that Cam will still feel his grasp in the morning. Cam angles his hips up and hits something in him that punches the all the breath he’s been holding right out of him.

His eyes fly open and Cam looks back at him. Brock, who was starting to feel like he wasn’t going to get anything out of this, now feels sticky with sweat. Heat flares down his spine, warming up like that first brush of Cam’s eyes in the crowded room. But Cam still moves so slow, almost leisurely. It echoes the steady thump of the base through the walls.

Brock arches up against him, trying to draw him deeper inside. “Harder,” he says, face pressed into the pillow, neck stretched back so he doesn’t have to look at Cam. Cam laughs, drops his head to graze his lips over Brock’s exposed throat, but doesn’t change his pace by a single beat.

“Mother fucker,” Brock says, voice deep and ragged. The same way it sounds in desperate anger now torn from his mouth in want of pleasure. He struggles, moans spilling past his lips desperately. He draws his thighs around Cam’s hips, pulling him in tight, aware of the wanton parody of a woman he makes.

Cam hands find his arms, fingers curling tight, and he presses Brock’s wrists down to the bed harshly. One simple word: “No.”

How long can Cam keep this up? He can’t get enough air in. The same dizzying sensation of the bed dipping and tossing underneath him returns.

“Don’t make me beg,” he says, not liking how wretched he sounds. He wants to come. Cam’s hard-muscled abdomen grinds down against his dick, but it’s not enough. He wants to feel that shock of pleasure that Cam hit seemingly by accident. He strains and tugs against Cam’s punishing hands, trying to wrench out from underneath him and take his pleasure.

Cam catches his mouth in a kiss, tongue pushing deep. His hips snap up hard and Brock tears his mouth away to groan. He presses his face back to pillow, spine bending. Cam smiles against his throat and Brock hates him a little. He clenches his muscles down and is rewarded by Cam’s low moan, the way his rhythm stutters. Brock has his thighs so tight around Cam’s waist; he’ll bear the bruises of Cam’s hips tomorrow. He needs to come so bad it’s painful.

“I can’t—” he starts.

“Shh,” Cam interrupts and moves in, until he’s hitting that spot inside every single time. For the first time, Cam’s harsh breathing filters into Brock’s consciousness. He’s wants this too, Brock has to remind himself. His dick is trapped between their bodies and he can’t reach for it. This balancing on the edge is getting to be too much. Finally, with sensation building up into hopeless pressure, Cam shoves in deep one last time and Brock loses it, mouth opening soundlessly.

His eyelids flutter, Cam thrusts into him all the way through it, finally he focuses on Cam’s dark blue eyes. Cam’s gaze is trained on him the entire time and only now, that Brock is woozy and unsure how he’ll be able to walk after this, does he feel like they have any sort of connection. Cam’s expression is almost fond. It melts into a grimace as his hips still, he remains there for a long moment, before pulling out and rolling off.

After that show of primacy, Brock is not sure what he expects. For Cam to get up and start pulling his clothes on. Not to look back. Cam leans on his side, still pressed in close. He traces a design with one long finger on Brock’s stomach. Brock’s tired and trashed. He just got fucked by another guy. He’s not really sure he can deal with this right now.

When he wakes up Cam is gone, and Brock smells heavily of sex and cigarettes. He can feel his heartbeat in his skull. He’s pretty sure he’s still drunk.

*

Can I just say something? What parent actually names their son Brock?


End file.
